Pregnant Pause (23 page)

It doesn't help any that the doctor and his assistant—a lady doctor—explain everything they're doing, and I mean
everything,
in great detail.

The operating room has these two giant round lights that shine down on me from the ceiling and all this machinery and a TV screen thing and wires and a table with scary-looking medical tools on it. I close my eyes, and the doctor starts to tell me some horrible thing he's about to do to me.

"Okay, you know what?" I say, interrupting him. "I don't want to hear a blow-by-blow. I mean, does anybody? Really? Why don't you sing a song or something instead?"

The lady doctor surprises me because she asks me what I want her to sing, and I ask her if she knows "Everything's Coming Up Roses" from
Gypsy,
but she doesn't know it. She sings "Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Da" by the Beatles instead. She's got a terrible voice, and when she's done I tell her not to quit her day job.

As soon as they adjust the drape so it's above my chest, they let Ziggy in, and now I'm sorry that my mom's not here, because she knows "Everything's Coming Up Roses," and I really want to hear that song.

I ask Ziggy if he knows it, and he does.

"Yeah, I know it, and I could sing it, but sorry, you don't want me to ever sing to you again," he says. "So my lips are sealed."

"Please? Just for this special occasion, and not like a lady opera singer, okay?"

The doctor can't help himself. He forgets that I told him not to tell me what he's doing, and so he says, "I'm going to begin the incision now."

"Oh, sing out, baby June!" I holler, quoting from
Gypsy.
I grab Ziggy's hand.

Ziggy's dressed in a gown and those funny blue paper shoe covers and he's wearing a mask over his mouth and nose, but he sings, and his voice is nice. It's got a wiggle in it—what do they call that? Vibrato? He sings almost every word with a wiggle, but it's okay. It sounds right, and I like when he sings, "Honey, everything's coming up roses for me and for you!"

The nurse and the assisting doctor clap when he finishes. I'm too busy trying not to feel all the tugging and pulling and yucky stuff going on down below to remember to clap, but I've got tears in my eyes. I miss my mom. I should have asked her to be with me. Anytime something went wrong or whenever I was afraid, she would sing me that song, and then when I got to know the words, I would sing it with her. We'd sing it from Maine to Massachusetts whenever we drove down to visit my grandma and grandpa, just for the hell of it. We never got tired of that song, but Sarah did. That made me like it even more.

Now it's quiet, except for the machinery and the doctor's voice and the gross noises coming from my body, so I ask for another song, but then the door to the operating room opens and a nurse comes in and whispers something, and the doctor nods. Then he looks at me. "Lam's here. Do you want him to switch places with your friend here? Only one can be in the operating room."

"Can we do that? Switch, I mean?"

"Whatever you want," he says.

I look up at Ziggy. He squeezes my hand. I think of Lam out there, fresh from the police station. I think of our life the past couple of years, and I remember what I realized in the cop car as we were rushing to the hospital. If I stay with Lam, it's always going to be rides in cop cars. There's always going to be another Gren. That's the kind of relationship we have—troubled. I decide it's time to grow up. I've got a guy here who loves me even nine months pregnant, even all cut open. I've got a guy I think I could really love—a grown-up kind of love, not a teenage crush/fantasy kind of love. I picture us living in Boston, going to concerts and museums and walking in the park—him, me, and the baby—with no drugs, no drinking, no base jumping and stealing cars. Then I remember about the baby. I'm giving it to Sarah.

I look at the doctor, who's waiting for my answer. "Let's just stick with Ziggy. I want Ziggy."

Ziggy kisses my forehead. "I love you, El," he says at the same time the doctor says, "You're the boss."

Things get tense after that. Cutting me open takes forever. What are they doing down there? I feel like they're pulling on me. Like the doctor's down there trying to pry me open with his elbows. I mean!

"I think—I think..." Ziggy says in this strange voice like he's suddenly drunk.

He's looking at something in the assisting doctor's hand. "I think I'm going to faint."

The nurse moves fast and guides Ziggy out of the room.

"Ziggy?" I call after him.

I'm wondering what he saw. I don't like the sounds I'm hearing or the constant tugging and pulling, and now I have no one to hold my hand.

I'm feeling this pressure like they're pushing on my stomach. The doctor says, "You're going to feel a little pressure now." Uh, yeah!

"What are you doing? Do you get a baby out the same way you pop a zit?"

The doctor chuckles. "Kind of."

Gross! I was only kidding.

A few minutes later and I hear, "Here—we—go. We've got us a real live baby. Here it—
she
comes!"

"A girl! It's a girl?" I squeal, and look around for someone to share the good news with, forgetting I'm on my own.

Then I see my baby, wow, my baby, born from me—a miracle. She's all covered in crud, and the umbilical cord is hanging out of her belly. I see arms and legs moving, and the doctor does something to suck out fluid from her mouth and nose, and the baby cries and I cry and I can't believe it—I have a baby, a baby girl, a baby girl named Emma Rose.

I KNOW, I know, I shouldn't have named her, but the name was right there. I had had it all along. It was hidden deep inside me. That's the way it is with me. I've got all kinds of thoughts and feelings and bits of information I know, that I don't realize I'm thinking, or feeling, or knowing, until all of a sudden there it is right in front of me, like it's been there all along and it was just waiting for me to notice. That's the way it is with the name Emma Rose.

They whisk the baby off so fast and I want to follow, see where she goes, but the doctor says that was the easy part. Now he has to get me put back together right so that there's no infection and no unusual bleeding.

While that's going on, in walks Lam, and I'm worried about what he's going to say. Is he going to yell at me right here in front of the doctors and all for choosing Ziggy over him?

Lam looks tired, and I smile at him to get him to smile back. "Hey, it's a girl," is all he says, his voice kind of flat.

"Sarah would love a little girl," I say. "She should go to Sarah, don't you think?"

He shrugs again. "My parents were hoping for a girl—to replace..."

"Yeah, I know, Lam, but no kid can replace another one. Not really. And your parents have you. They adore you. You should treat them better."

"I know. I know," Lam says. "Well, whatever you want is okay with me." His face is blank. He's already checked out. It's clear the story of us is over.

When the doctor finishes putting me back together, they wheel me into the recovery room, and before you know it I just totally conk out. They must have put something in my IV fluids, because wow! I'm out!

A while later the doctor is waking me up. He sits on my bed and takes my hand. The lights are off, and it's gloomy in the room. I notice the blinds are drawn. The doctor looks so serious.

"What? What is it? Is Emma Rose okay? Is she dead? What's happened? Why did I go to sleep? I shouldn't have gone to sleep. I should have stayed awake for my baby. It's my fault."

The doctor pats my hand. "She's alive, and she has all her fingers and all her toes. The surgery went fine. You're in great shape."

"But?" I know there's something. I know something's coming.

"Do you know what Down syndrome is?"

"Down syndrome? Yeah, I read about that. That's where the kids all look alike with big lips or tongues or something that makes their mouths hang open a lot, and they've got that bowl haircut and they're retarded, right?"

"Well, something like that, but..."

"But, she couldn't have that if that's what you're going to say. That's what old ladies have. They have Down syndrome babies because they're too old and they shouldn't be having babies. I read all about that in this book. I'm sixteen. So it can't be that."

I'm searching the doctor's eyes for some hint that he's kidding, but he's serious.

"You're right, it's rare for a teen to give birth to a Down syndrome baby, but it happens. Of course we'll do the blood test, but we're about ninety-nine point nine percent sure she has it. And as for retardation, every child is different. As she gets older, she'll need to be evaluated. She could be only mildly retarded. Of greater concern right now are her heart and lungs. Many children born with Down syndrome have congenital heart disease or even high blood pressure in the lungs. There are some serious issues that come with a child born with the syndrome." He pauses and sees that I'm crying. The tears leak out the corners of my eyes and spill onto my pillow. He hands me a tissue. "I'm sorry for the shock, Eleanor, but I want you to know that children with Down syndrome usually grow up to be a family's pride and joy. They're usually wonderful people who make you happy just knowing them."

"It's my fault. I took drugs. I smoked and drank those first couple of weeks. It's all my fault. I thought I'd just have a miscarriage like my sister and mother. Why didn't I just have a miscarriage?"

"It's not your fault. It's nobody's fault. Eleanor, if you took drugs and smoked and drank, your baby could have been born with a number of disorders, but Down syndrome isn't one of them. I explained that to your sister."

I look up. "She knows? She blames me, doesn't she? Does everybody know? Where are my parents? Do they know? Does Lam? And the MIL and Ziggy? Does everybody know? What do they think?"

The doctor is nodding while I'm speaking. "Yes, yes, they know, and I explained to them just what I said to you. It's not your family's fault because the Crowe women have a tendency toward miscarriages, and it's not the Lothrops' fault because they had a child born with brain damage. It is an entirely different circumstance. Okay?"

I nod.

The doctor had been sitting on the edge of my bed; now he stands. It's obvious he's ready to get out of here. "I think your parents are saying goodbye to your sister, but they'll be in as soon as they get back."

"Goodbye?"

"That's right. Your parents will come see you in the postpartum room soon, and a nurse will bring your baby to you then. I know you'll want to see her. She's precious."

As soon as the doctor leaves, a nurse comes in and wheels me into the postpartum room. The room is painted blue with a border of children's toys, building blocks, and trucks and such. It's a depressing room. For some reason it's just so depressing. I've been trying to digest the news about Emma Rose, but I can't. I can't quite believe it. The nurse tucks me in and messes with my pillows and tells me I'm going to need lots of rest. I ask when I'm going to see my baby, and she says, "Real soon," but she doesn't look at me when she says it. "Your mother wants to talk to you first—as soon as she's through speaking with the doctor."

I wonder what my mom has to say to the doctor, but the nurse leaves before I can ask, and then in walks Leo with a package in his hands. He looks hilarious because he's wearing a retro jacket and tie. It's a plaid jacket in tan and white and forest green and rust, and he's wearing tan pants and a really loud shirt in red and blue, and a green tie with tan somethings on it. I can't imagine anybody bringing dress clothes to camp. A suit jacket! And I never would have expected to see him here.

"Leo? What are you doing here? Where's Ziggy?"

Leo looks behind him as if he's expecting him to walk through the door, then he turns back to me. "They all left. Mrs. Lothrop and Lam and Ziggy all left."

"Did they say anything? Are they coming back?"

Leo comes over to the bed. "I would think so. I don't know." He smiles. "Hey, how are you?"

"Well, crappy. I feel crappy and I hurt, and I just—I think I just got the worst news." Tears start leaking again, and I try to sit up so I won't soak my pillows anymore, and Leo sets his package down and helps me. Up close I see that his tie has these Greek-like statues with missing arms and heads on it.

"I heard about the baby," he says. "I was there when the doctor came in and told everybody."

"Yeah, and?"

"And everybody was upset."

"And? What else?" I want to know what they said. I want to know that they're coming back and that this is okay.

"Well, I guess your sister and Mrs. Lothrop took it the hardest. Sarah was brokenhearted, really, and Mrs. Lothrop said something about how she couldn't live through that again, whatever that means."

I nod. "Yeah, I bet they were upset. They both want my baby—Emma Rose. That's what I named her."

"That's a pretty name."

"Yeah, I think so. The name was just there. It was like I just plucked it off a name tree—Emma Rose." I'm staring off in the distance picturing this pretty little girl, this pretty Emma Rose, but then I remember she has Down syndrome, and I return to Leo.

"So what did Sarah say? Did she say anything? Did she see the baby?"

"Elly, I don't know if I should be telling you this. Do you really want to know?"

"Yes, and be honest. Please be honest with me, Leo. Please?"

"It's just been such a hard day." He wipes his hand over his face as if he's trying to wipe out the memory of the day from his brain.

He does that, and I remember Banner. How could I have forgotten her so soon? I'm sure this Down syndrome is punishment for her death, and for all the other terrible things I've done in my life. How can I ever forgive myself? I've destroyed so many lives. That's who I am, the destroyer.

"Sarah blames me, doesn't she?" I say. I can't stop the tears from spilling. I dab at them with a tissue, and more just keep coming. I so hate myself.

"Yes, well, she did, because of your using drugs, but your mother and Mrs. Lothrop set her straight about that, and then Sarah blamed your mother."